


Put Your Ray Gun To My Head

by grocketinmypocket



Series: Press Your Space Face Close To Mine, Love [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, I Adore Rocket And We Always Hurt The Ones We Love, If You Don't Think Peter Quill Is Pansexual We Can't Be Friends, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rocket Is A Freak Between The Sheets, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grocketinmypocket/pseuds/grocketinmypocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's sleep was deep, perfect, and dreamless. He would have probably slept for a day or more, but woke in the pitch darkness of midnight to a familiar, heavy sensation on his chest. Rocket. His whiskers were tickling Peter's face, and tears were dripping hotly onto Peter's face and neck, but Peter stayed completely still, still like there was a venomous wasp on his cheek, because above the soft sound of Rocket sobbing, he heard the whine of one of his own pistols charging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Your Ray Gun To My Head

Somehow, Peter had thought that after they saved the galaxy with the power of friendship, that there would be more of bond between them all. That after being inside each others' minds for the eternal instant in which they had wielded the stone, they would all want to stay together, to deepen and widen the strands of connection that had just begun to form.

Perhaps it was precisely _because_ they had been thrust into each other's minds that, the moment they were offered their own rooms in which to rest and bathe, Gamora and Drax peeled off from their battered, dusty little group and shut themselves away, each in their own suite. Peter could understand that, he supposed; it was hard to remember, right now, how his mind was supposed to work, all alone in his skull like this.

In the deafening silence of his lonely mind, Peter was left standing in the hall of the accomodations wing of Nova Headquarters with just Rocket.

And Groot.

Rocket had demanded a pot, some soil, when a Nova Corps officer tried to take the broken, ragged twig from his hands -- had demanded it with the blood of the idiot who had dared to try to take Groot away from him lining his mouth like lipstick. Someone had produced a little clay seedling pot from somewhere, and someone else rushed over with a plastic bag of dirt scooped from the landscaping outside. Now the splintery little stick was stuck into the rich brown dirt filling the pot, and Rocket stood silently, hugging it to his chest, staring at nothing in particular. Peter supposed that was an improvement over the ranting and screaming that had exploded from Rocket when they'd tried to take Groot from him, insisting that Groot was still alive, he'd be fine, the big leafy bastard would grow back, he always grows back, _he has to_.

Peter watched him for a moment; Rocket was showing no inclination at all to choose a room, or to even move, to take care of himself, to _live_ without Groot, and Peter couldn't stand the thought of just leaving him like this. He knelt down, feeling the ache of the Dark Aster's impact in every single bone on the way to the floor, feeling the exhaustion and emptiness left after a battle. He tilted his head to try to catch Rocket's down-turned gaze, said, "Hey, buddy. Rocket? Look at me, Rocket."

Rocket raised his head enough to meet Peter's eyes, and Peter had to consciously stop himself from flinching away. Looking at Rocket's face was like looking at the gouge of devastation the crashing Dark Aster had carved through the city. A raw open wound.

He reached out to Rocket, put his hands on his shoulders, and Rocket was the one who flinched. He clasped the pot and its pitiful occupant tighter to his chest, like he thought Peter would try to take it away, too. "Come on, they gave us rooms. Let's get you in your room, okay? Rocket?"

Rocket was staring past him at nothing, his eyes sliding away from Peter's gaze before he'd even finished his first sentence. Peter realized that Rocket was not going to move on his own; he would stand here in the hallway, disconnected from everything but his grief, for as long as Peter allowed it. The silence wasn't an improvement, Peter knew suddenly. Rocket hadn't simply calmed down after his outburst; he had turned himself off completely, like removing the battery pack from a lase cannon. It was terrifying, and Peter wanted to crawl out of his own skin from the wrongness of Rocket being still and quiet and deadly solemn.

"Rocket?" he began, in the calmest voice he could. "Rocket, I'm gonna pick you up. I'm gonna pick you up right now, so please, please don't bite me or anything, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you, I won't make you put Groot down --" The pot was squeezed so tightly to Rocket's chest now that Peter was worried he would hurt himself with it -- "I'm just gonna pick you up and carry you into the room, okay? Here we go, please don't bite me."

He wrapped one arm around Rocket's back, got his other arm under his knees, and lifted him in a bridal carry. For a moment Peter was swamped with the memory of lifting Rocket, unconscious and bloody, from the wreck of the Milano's cockpit, of holding him that way as they waited for the ship to crash, waited to die. As Groot died to save them. Rocket shuddered once in his arms and then went still. The pot was clasped securely in his arms, but his head lolled carelessly and he looked past Peter's shoulder, eyes empty and dim. It was like holding a doll. Peter pushed through the first door he saw, wanting now to get Rocket out of the corridor and into privacy. It seemed obscene to expose Rocket's grief like this.

Inside the room, Peter kicked the door shut and looked around -- it was the most opulent, lavishly-appointed room he had ever been in. Obviously Nova Corps was expressing their thanks for saving the galaxy, Peter thought, and then glanced down at Rocket, and Groot's tiny pot. _It could never be enough._

There was a living room suite directly in front of Peter, with doors to, presumably, a bedroom and bathroom. Still cradling Rocket -- and it was eating at Peter's nerves that Rocket hadn't yet demanded to be put down, or threatened him, or said a single word -- he chose a door at random and found a huge, marble-clad bathroom, with a magnificent shower against one wall and a bathtub big enough for three humans. He felt grit sifting through his hair, pattering onto the floor from his clothing. Rocket was just as filthy. The red leather jumpsuit was torn and dusty, the white fur of his muzzle was still stained scarlet. He glanced up into the mirror and then had to look away again -- he looked almost as exhausted and depleted as Rocket did, and he supposed only concentrating on taking care of Rocket was keeping him upright and awake.

He knew then that he wasn't going to leave Rocket here and go to his own room. They would stay here together tonight. He tried to think, to prioritize. Clean. He would get both of them clean, and try to make Rocket eat something, and sleep. If the bathroom was any indication, the bed would be big and soft and inviting. He briefly considered just bundling them both into bed right now, but it didn't seem right to leave him dirty like this, fur clotted with something like sawdust and wood chips that Peter realized with creeping horror actually was -- was _pieces_ of Groot. He shifted Rocket to one arm and opened the shower door, turned the shower on, and then knelt to set Rocket on the floor.

The moment he touched Rocket's clothing to start removing it, Rocket flared into sudden life, throwing himself away from Peter and up against the wall, huddling in on himself with Groot's pot clenched in his hands. "No," he said, tonelessly. "No no no no _nononono_ \--"

"I'm not gonna take him away, Rocket, I promise," Peter said, heedless of the tears sliding down his own cheeks now, because this was too much, no one should have to have to feel this much utter, devastated grief. "I just wanna get you undressed, so you can take a shower. I won't take him away, you can take him in the shower with you, okay? The water'll be...it'll be good for him, right?" Rocket stared at him, and for the first time since they'd all held the stone together, Peter saw a spark, saw something other than nothing in his eyes. 

"Peter?" Rocket said, and Peter's heart thudded uncertainly. Rocket had never called him that. 

"Yeah, man, I'm right here."

"I'll...I'll get in the shower. So he can have some water. But don't...don't stay in here."

Peter sat back on his heels. He really, really didn't want to leave Rocket alone. He had a horrifying, momentary vision of Rocket searching the cabinets and drawers for a razor blade. "I'd rather not leave."

It was like Rocket was coming back by slow degrees. He looked at Peter square-on for the first time since the battle. "I ain't gettin' undressed in front of ya," he finally said, and while Peter was glad to hear him sound even the tiniest bit like himself, he still didn't like the idea of leaving him alone.

"Rocket --" he started, and Rocket cut him off firmly, tiredly.

"No."

"Are you sure?" Peter pressed. He had pretty much planned on showering with Rocket, to make sure he was -- honestly, to make sure he was still _there_. Peter recognized that right now, he didn't want to let Rocket out of his sight any more than Rocket was willing to relinquish Groot. "You promise you'll be okay in here alone?"

Rocket nodded, and Peter stood up. He remembered realizing Rocket's shame about the scars, the augments, the way he was made, when they'd fucked at the Kyln, and understood. He didn't have to like it, and was already planning to stand outside the door with his ear pressed to it the entire time Rocket was in here alone, but he understood. "I'll be out in the living room, okay? I'll get some food or something."

Rocket just stood, staring at him, holding the pot containing his best friend's remains, waiting for Peter to leave. There was nothing for Peter to do but leave, and he heard Rocket start moving around, heard the rustle of cloth and clink of buckles. He turned his back to the door and sagged against it, noticing that someone must have been in since they'd been in the bathroom -- there were piles of cloth folded neatly on the console table behind one of the lavish sofas, and on the low table in front of the couches a large tray of fruit and other food was laid out. _Thank god for Nova Corps,_ Peter thought. He wasn't sure he had enough brain cells left to work out how to get food delivered. 

He turned back to the bathroom door, put his ear to the cool wood -- he heard the shower, and the soft streetwise cadence of Rocket's voice. He was talking to Groot, Peter guessed, and that was enough to break him for a little while. He sat down on the floor in front of the door and cried. He didn't allow himself to cry long -- Rocket might be done showering any time now, and Peter didn't want him to see him crying. He wasn't ashamed of his tears; he just felt that somebody had to be in charge of getting Rocket through this, and it was apparently going to be his job for the forseeable future. _You wanted an epic bromance,_ he reminded himself.

Promising himself that he could sleep soon, he just had to get Rocket fed and asleep first, he gave one last listen at the door to verify that the shower was still running, and then walked over to the table behind the sofa. The piles of cloth were soft, loose pajama pants and t-shirts, one set sized for him and one set sized for Rocket. He took the set meant for Rocket and knocked softly on the bathroom door.

"Rocket? I'm gonna come in and put some clothes on the counter for you. I won't try to look in the shower, I promise."

"Okay," Rocket answered after a pause long enough to make Peter antsy, make him want to fling open the door and make sure that Rocket hadn't found something sharp. Peter pushed open the door, steam rolling out, and kept his promise, averting his eyes from the frosted shower door after a cursory glance that showed him Rocket's silhouette, standing with his arms up as if he was washing his face. Satisfied, Peter put the clothes down and left, ending up pacing the living area until he heard the shower shut off and the door swing open.

Rocket emerged from the bathroom, looking childlike and lost in the baggy, soft civilian clothes. He was still carrying Groot's pot. He stopped a few paces away from the door, as if he had run out of ideas for what to do next, run out of motivation to continue moving. "Come eat," Peter said gently. Rocket stayed where was for a while longer, then trudged over to the couches, small bare soles silent on the carpet. Peter sat down on one of the couches. Rocket sat down as well, feet dangling well above the floor. He shoved a platter of fruit across the table toward Rocket, and watched as Rocket ignored it in favor of settling Groot's pot more securely in his lap.

Rocket stayed silent and still for more than ten minutes, looking at nothing except the little clay pot, saying nothing. Sighing, Peter stood up. He couldn't take care of Rocket unless he took care of himself, too, and he reached over the back of the couch and snagged the clothes still piled on the console table. "I'm gonna take a shower, too. You okay?"

"Quit asking me that, Quill. Ya ain't my babysitter." There was some of the Rocket Peter was looking for, and he relaxed a tiny bit.

"I could be, if you like that kind of thing." He tried on a little flirtatious eyebrow waggle, hoping to at least make Rocket smile.

Rocket just looked at him emptily. "Go shower, ya stink."

Peter went, and showered as quickly as he could, eager to have Rocket back in his eyeline. All he could focus on was how worried he was that Rocket would find one of the approximately ten thousand ways available to him in their rooms to hurt himself. Broken drinking glass, shattered mirror shard, jagged bottle neck, a plunge from the window, sneaking in to take Peter's guns that he'd left on the bathroom counter, the fruit knife from the fancy, well-stocked bar, the cleaning chemicals underneath the bar, a sheet twisted into rope...by the time he was clean and dressed again he had managed to convince himself that Rocket would be dying or already dead when he got back out there, and practically ripped the door open in his haste to just check on him, just make sure he was all right --

To his surprise, Rocket had apparently moved from the couch long enough to take a bottle of booze from the bar and then returned to his former place, bottle in one hand and Groot's pot balanced on his thighs with the other. Gauging by the level of liquor in the bottle, Rocket had made terrifying progress at drinking the whole goddamn thing while Peter was in the bathroom.

Peter wasn't sure this was actually any better for Rocket than a nice sharp blade.

"Did you eat anything?" Peter asked, hoping he was successful in hiding his spike of panic at convincing himself that Rocket would kill himself if he took his eyes off him for too long.

Rocket just raised the bottle to his mouth and took a long pull.

"You need to eat. I don't think either of us have eaten in a day or two." Rocket was still guzzling straight from the neck of the bottle and pointedly ignoring Peter. "Rocket, if you don't eat something, I'm coming over there, taking that bottle away, and force-feeding you myself," Peter snapped, suddenly fresh out of patience and gentleness.

"The _fuck_ you will," Rocket snarled, and now he was hugging both Groot's pot _and_ the fucking booze bottle.

"If you keep drinking on an empty stomach you're gonna get alcohol poisoning," Peter said, striving with all his might not to vault across the couch and snatch that goddamn bottle away from him. He was too tired to mentally calculate Rocket's guessed-at body weight versus how much alcohol it would take to give him brain damage, but he tried anyway. He was too tired for all of this.

"So fucking what?" Rocket said. "I shoulda died a long time ago."

"Rocket, just _stop_. As much as I want to help you, I'm not gonna sit here and listen to you say stupid shit about yourself and drink yourself into a coma." Peter squeezed the bridge of his nose, frustrated and baffled at how to even _begin_ to help Rocket and all his damage. "What happens to Groot if you fucking kill yourself like this? What if he grows back and we have to tell him you're gone?"

"That is fucking low, Quill. I hate you," Rocket said viciously, looking disgusted, and threw the quarter-full bottle at Peter, missing by two feet or more. The bottle landed harmlessly on the couch and rolled off, spewing out amber liquid in an arc as it fell to the floor. "Fine. Not drinking now. Ya happy? I fuckin' hate you. Fuckin' emotionally manipulatin' me."

Peter tried to cheer himself up by counting the bottle-throwing as a win -- Rocket wasn't drinking, for the moment, and the bottle hadn't broken, at least -- and pasted on a fair facsimile of his earlier patience. He tried to remember how Yondu had dealt with him, when he was small and scared and missing his mother...and then realized that he should probably use Yondu as a guide to what _not_ to do when helping someone grieve. So that was at least some kind of guidance, right? _Thanks a lot, Yondu,_ Peter thought grimly.

He decided that perhaps bartering might work, so he offered, "If you'll eat something, and drink some actual water, you can get as drunk as you want to tomorrow."

"Oh, yer gonna _let_ me drink?" Rocket's arms twitched as if he wanted to cross them belligerently over his chest, but doing so would require him to let go of Groot's pot. "How nice of ya. _Don't fucking tell me what to do, Quill,_ " he said, enunciating the last sentence with clarity and precision, the Philadelphia-wise-guy gone from his voice like it was never there. "Leave. Me. Alone."

"Not leaving. Eat something, and I'll stop the babysitter crap." He knew they were skating dangerously close to an actual physical fight. If Rocket went nuclear, things could get killing bad, real quick -- with Peter on the losing end. He might have three and a half feet of height and maybe eighty, ninety pounds over Rocket, but Rocket was at least twice as strong as Peter, by virtue of his cybernetic, reinforced skeleton and synthetic muscle fibers, and was scary-quick and utterly merciless when his blood was up. His real disadvantage in an up-close brawl was lack of height, reach, and leverage due to his small size. He preferred to fight with a gun while astride Groot's shoulder, giving him height and reach to spare, but if forced to go hand-to-hand without Groot's assistance -- well, Peter knew of three men who, as Rocket had put it, "gotta sit down to piss now." Even without his guns, he could kill Peter here tonight, in a blind-drunk, wounded rage, and not even mean to.

"Rocket, listen. I didn't want to have to say this, but man, you gotta take care of yourself for my sake, too. I can't stand seeing you like this, okay? Groot wouldn't want you to do this, and I don't want you to, either. Please just eat something so we can both go to bed and I won't worry about all the booze you just drank killing you in your sleep."

Peter's head dropped to the back of the couch with a thump. He momentarily hated everyone. He hated Gamora and Drax for fucking dumping Rocket-sitting duty on him alone, he hated Rocket for being so stubbornly Rocket right now...he even hated Groot for dying and leaving Rocket alone like this. He hated himself for not doing or saying whatever the right thing was to fix this. He hated that there was probably no fixing in the galaxy that could make this better, except for the stick in that sad little pot flowering into a big, dopey, gentle tree-man.

"Why d'you care?" Rocket asked. "Why would ya care about a fucked up little monster? Why are you even bothering?" Rocket cried out, hands shaking where they were locked around the pot on his lap. "I'm nothin'. With Groot around, I was a little less of nothin', but now --"

"Rocket," Peter warned, "I'm getting up, and I'm going to come over there, and I'm gonna hug you. Just sit there, don't bite me, don't try to kill me, just sit there and get hugged."

"Quill, no, I ain't the huggin' --"

Peter was bearing down on him now, sitting down hip-to-hip with him and pulling Rocket sideways against him. He didn't try to pick him up, or crowd him any more than he had to. "I totally am the hugging type and you're killing me over here, so please just, accept a hug and shut. the. fuck. up."

"I don't need fuckin' hugs like I skinned my knee playin', asshole," Rocket said, but he didn't move at all.

"Maybe I need a goddamn hug, okay? Shut it." They sat still that way for a long time. Peter didn't turn his head so that he could see Rocket's face, keeping his gaze carefully on the floor. He knew this was pushing it with Rocket, that he could have just as easily torn Peter's throat out rather than freezing in place and allowing Peter to touch him. He heard Rocket crying, after a little while, and made no move or sign that he heard. He sat still, and hugged him to his side, and let him cry. After another, longer while, Rocket raised one hand away from Groot's pot and swiped at the end of his muzzle and his eyes.

"I need a drink," he said hoarsely, and Peter was prepared to unroll the whole 'alcohol poisoning and you' speech again when Rocket clarified, "Some water, I guess, 'cause some prick won't let me drink."

Peter got up and went behind the bar across the room, grabbing a tumbler and filling it with water. Bringing it back to Rocket, he sat down across from him again and looked over the food, trying to figure out what Rocket might be more likely to eat. The entirety of their time together so far had been spent either in prison, on the run, or in battle, and aside from prison food he hadn't seen Rocket actually eat anything much at all. While Rocket drank his water, complaining bitterly the entire time about babysittin' assholes who tell other people what to do, he piled some fruit and meat on a plate, whatever he happened to come across in the platter of food that had been left for them, and put it down in front of Rocket.

Rocket pushed it around on the plate one-handed for a bit, still holding Groot's pot with the other, and then asked for more water. When Peter got up to get it, he was struck by an idea, and stooped to look in the cupboards under the bar. He found what he was looking for -- a small ceramic bowl meant for holding sliced citrus -- and filled it to a shallow depth with water, too, and carried it back to the sofas. He set it all down by Rocket, who looked at it, then up at Peter. "What's this for?"

"Thought you might wanna wash your hands or whatever," Peter said.

Rocket was staring at him suspiciously. "How'd ya know that I --" He snapped his mouth shut. "Are you makin' fun of me?"

"No. I thought maybe that would help." 

"Why?" Rocket demanded. 

"Not everything anyone does for you is a trick, Rocket," Peter sighed. If he could possibly avoid having to admit to Rocket that he was going on hazy third-grade memories of a report he did about raccoons -- that would probably be best. And safest for Peter. "Just eat a little bit, okay? I want to go to sleep, sometime this year." 

Rocket stared at him, still suspicious and ready to be prickly about it, and then seemed to slump a little, as if he was too worn out to keep fighting Peter's attempts to mother-hen him. He slowly reached out and set Groot's pot on the table, carefully positioning it safely away from the edge but within his reach.

Peter piled food, didn't care what, onto a plate for himself and sat hunched over the table, shoveling it into his mouth without really tasting it. When he heard water splashing, he kept his gaze on the tabletop and on his plate. When he finished his own food and looked up, Rocket had eaten perhaps a third of what he'd started with, and was pushing his plate away to pick up Groot's pot again. Rocket's eyes were drooping closed, and Peter yawned theatrically to catch his attention and said, "I'm falling asleep sitting up, man. Let's go to bed."

Peter wasn't sure if he should be pleased or worried that Rocket stood up and walked toward the bedroom on his own, without fighting. Peter had figured at the very least that he would have to sit out here for a while longer, fending Rocket away from the bar and camping out on the couch watching until Rocket fell deeply enough asleep right where he sat that Peter could pick him up and move him to the bed. By the time Peter got to the bedroom door, Rocket was setting Groot's pot reverently on the closest nightstand. The bed was a massive, sprawling affair, wide enough for four humans. Pillows piled up like cloudbanks at the head, a richly embroidered satin duvet covering the acres of mattress -- Peter had never slept on such a thing in his life. He was almost afraid to get into it, as if his touch would soil the puffy bone-white perfection forever.

Rocket stood there looking at the bed, and when Peter walked up to stand next to him, craned his neck up at Peter and said, " _Look_ at this fuckin' thing." They considered its fluffy magnificence together in silence for a while, and Peter thought that if they both weren't so drained and exhausted that they would have jointly concluded that the only reasonable thing to do, when faced by a bed this pristine and perfect, was to fuck in it with wild, sweaty abandon until the virgin sheets were a debauched, sex-stinking mess.

Which was obviously not going to happen tonight. Peter literally could not remember the last time he'd slept. In prison, maybe? He started re-arranging the pillows and dragging the duvet down -- just as he'd expected, the sheets were pure white as well. It was going to be like sleeping in a huge white wedding dress. The clock on the nightstand read 7:45, and the information meant nothing to Peter. He had been bouncing around, going without real sleep or food or anything people needed to stay normal and grounded for so long that neither times nor dates made any real sense anymore.

He turned to Rocket and wordlessly offered him his hands for a boost up -- the bed was not only wide, but high as well -- but Rocket refused his help and scaled the side of the bed, nimble as you please, and claimed his slice of the mattress right at the edge, next to Groot's flowerpot on the nightstand. 

Peter shrugged, too tired to be offended, and after turning out the lights, crawled in past Rocket's feet to curl up behind him. He left about a foot of space between himself and Rocket; far away enough not to make him feel crowded or threatened, but hopefully close enough that Peter would feel it if he got up in the night. He tried to stay awake at least long enough to make sure Rocket fell asleep first, but exhaustion took him and plowed him under as soon as he was horizontal.

His sleep was deep, perfect, and dreamless. He would have probably slept for a day or more, but woke in the pitch darkness of midnight to a familiar, heavy sensation on his chest. Rocket. His whiskers were tickling Peter's face, and tears were dripping hotly onto Peter's face and neck, but Peter stayed completely still, still like there was a venomous wasp on his cheek, because above the soft sound of Rocket sobbing, he heard the whine of one of his own pistols charging.

 _Stupid,_ he thought. _I left them on the counter, in the bathroom. Fuck._ He squinted up into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust, because he was terrified that Rocket was crouching on his chest, about to blow his own head off. As his eyes adjusted, for all the good that did him in the night-black room, he became aware of the cool feel of a barrel pressed against his temple, rock-steady despite Rocket's tears. _Okay, so, not his own head,_ Peter thought. He tried to keep his face neutral and unafraid, knowing that Rocket could see in the dark much better than he could. Rocket's face was shadowed, unreadable, from Peter's point of view.

"Rocket," Peter began, carefully, quietly, calmly, and Rocket cut him off.

"Don't."

"Okay, man. It's all okay." The barrel stayed poised at his temple, and Peter felt himself beginning to sweat.

"Don't. You. Ever," Rocket said through his tears, "Leave."

"Not going to," Peter said softly.

" _DON'T YOU EVER LEAVE,_ " Rocket said, snarling, growling, teeth snapping over the words like a mouthful of bones, cracking them open for the bleeding marrow. "Not _ever_ , ya don't get ta be this nice to me and then leave, _don't ever do it_ or I swear I'll find you n' kill you." The cold barrel at Peter's temple trembled minutely.

"I won't. I promise. You're stuck with me, okay, Rocket?"

"Don't you _ever_ ," Rocket said. The gun left Peter's head, thumped onto the mattress a few feet away across the big, wide bed. Rocket dropped his forehead onto Peter's chest and breathed out. "Ever."

"I promise you, I won't ever leave," Peter said, and was somehow still unaware enough of himself at the deepest level to be surprised that he meant it, no hesitation.

"Groot left me," Rocket said on a sighing hiccup.

"I know. I know he did. I'm sorry." He carefully put his hands on Rocket's back, feeling lines of scar tissue, both from the augments and from injuries, under the thin shirt. He could feel Rocket's heart beating, hard and strong, through his back, felt his breath against Peter's neck steady out and slow down. Soon Rocket was asleep on Peter's chest, and Peter, still exhausted and now crashing as adrenaline drained from his system, fell asleep as well.

When Peter woke next, it was still dark. He had no real way of knowing whether it was the same night, or if they had slept the clock around. Either was entirely possible. Rocket was still a warm weight on his chest, his face turned to the side right below Peter's heart and his groin snug against Peter's. He was hard, and that alone was enough to get Peter hard. The room was still pitch black, and Peter couldn't see if Rocket was awake or not. He ran his hands, still on Rocket's back, up and down, hearing Rocket's breath catch as he woke completely.

"Quill?" Rocket said, and Peter moved one hand to cup the back of his head.

"Yeah," Peter murmured, feeling Rocket press his hips tighter against him, pressing their cocks together. 

"What time is it?" 

"Don't know. Does it matter? Noplace we have to be."

"Guess so." 

Peter ran his hand down Rocket's back even further, and palmed Rocket's ass. Rocket squirmed and then sat up, straddling Peter's pelvis, keeping their cocks in contact through two layers of thin fabric. Peter understood; Rocket needed to be in control, so he let him, dropping his hands to the bed. Rocket ground his hips, sliding his cock up and down alongside Peter's. Peter desperately wanted to reach out for him, grab him and pull him down harder, but kept his hands where they were. The effort of not grabbing, pulling, deepening the delicious friction made him whine, and Rocket gave a short, thoroughly dirty chuckle.

"Needy bitch."

Peter was instantly ten times harder and more impatient because good fucking god, Rocket was about to talk dirty again. It was a wonderful time to be alive.

"Keep those hands right where they are. Ya don't get to run this ride."

Peter's whining turned into shameless panting when Rocket leaned down over Peter's chest, biting and sucking at the skin he could reach, and the new angle painted streaks of painful pleasure up and down Peter's spine as Rocket ground against him like he was trying to burrow his way into Peter's body. Peter was pushing up against him and getting closer, closer, when Rocket moved his hips away, that dirty chuckle coming to Peter again from the dark. 

"Ya want it, huh?" Rocket asked, hovering over him, barely skimming their cocks together. Peter heard and felt a rustling of cotton and then they were skin-to-skin. He hissed sharply, and Rocket ground down harder again for a moment before moving away again. "You'll get it when I want ya to get it, 'cause yer mine."

"Jesus, Rocket, come _on_..." Peter moaned.

Rocket slapped his belly, letting his claws score across Peter's skin. " _Mine_ , I said." Peter's cock jumped at the sting of Rocket's nails, and he could feel himself slicking up the friction between them with pre-cum. Rocket was grinding down again, dragging their cocks against each other.

"Yeah," Peter breathed out. "Yours."

"Gonna put my fuckin' smell all over ya, gonna come all over ya --" Rocket was riding him right into the bed, so hard it hurt in the best way possible. He heard the mechanical whine of the synthetic joints in Rocket's hips in the quiet room, the discreet squeaking of the expensive bed, his own panting moans. Peter decided that from now on, every time they came out ahead on one of his heists he was going to find the most lavish hotel rooms possible and get pounded into a very nice mattress in as many different ways as Rocket's perverse little brain could devise.

Rocket was still talking, and Peter tried to tune in, to concentrate, but he was shaking apart under Rocket and cried out into the silent room when he came, feeling Rocket coming too, a sticky warm mess between them as Rocket muttered, "Don't ever leave," over and over. They lay in silence for a while, remembering how to breathe, and then Rocket rolled off of Peter's chest to lie next to the edge of the bed. "Gimme yer shirt," he demanded suddenly.

"Use your own," Peter retorted mildly, loathe to get up, move, or do anything that wasn't sprawl there and enjoy being bonelessly relaxed.

Rocket swatted his stomach again. "Gimme, I said. Do ya know how _disgustin'_ dried cum in yer fur is?"

"Go to the bathroom, then, jesus. You fucked me into the mattress, let me lie here in peace."

Rocket growled irritably, and Peter felt the bed dip as he got up, felt his eyes sting as light from the living room suite poured in through the left-open door, because Rocket was just that kind of inconsiderate asshole. He rolled over toward the side of the bed, now feeling the uncomfortable tackiness of cum on his skin, but too lazy to follow Rocket to the bathroom. His eyes landed on Groot's little seedling pot, and then widened in shock.

There was a single, delicate, pale-green leaf unfurling from the top of the twig.

He shot up straight in bed and yelled toward the bathroom. " _Rocket! Get in here!_ "

"What?" Rocket yelled back.

"Just get in here!" Peter shouted, now up on his knees by the nightstand, staring incredulously at the little Groot-ling struggling to bloom.

Rocket stomped into the room, already snapping "What the _fuck_ is wrong?" at Peter even as his eyes, too, landed on the little clay pot.

"What..." Rocket came closer, looking at the twig but not accepting what he was seeing.

"He's back," Peter said, marveling. "Groot's back."

Rocket picked up the pot, gently, reverently. "He knew we were here with 'im." He sank down onto the bed, his eyes locked firmly on the pot and the single, fragile leaf clinging to the branch.

They sat there, side by side, until morning light slanted in through the open bedroom door, watching their friend grow.


End file.
